


He Who Shines So in the Corner

by misbegotten



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Comment Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 01:39:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8308786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: John may be neglected during the day, but at night Sherlock's attention is absolute.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the [/ritchie_holmes](https://www.imzy.com/ritchie_holmes) prompt: lavish

Sherlock pays attention to little other than whatever problem is consuming him at the moment or the sheer agony of boredom. Either state leaves John nearly bereft of company. Unless Sherlock wants an extra set of fists, someone to listen to him pontificate, or to try John's patience with thinly-veiled insults as to John's bad habits.

John is a bloody saint. And yet, there's too much devil in Sherlock to remain perturbed at him for long. Sherlock makes up for his daytime preoccupation with utter concentration at night, his deft fingers tracing the details of John's body, memorizing him by touch and scent and taste. John is has Sherlock's total concentration _finally_ and he nearly drowns in it. 

"Be still," Sherlock chides, despite the fact that not even a saint could hold still when Sherlock's hand is still coaxing him, when his nose is inhaling the musky remnants of sweat and semen, when his tongue is writing benedictions on John's flesh. 

Persistence pays off, as does everything to which Sherlock sets his mind, and John's cock stirs again. "Oh miracle of noble manhood," Sherlock murmurs. "You astound me, John."

John clenches his fists. "Did you just mangle Tennyson's 'The Princess'? In reference to my genitalia?"

Sherlock laughs softly in John's ear, his hands wandering in oft-traveled places. "'Strange was the sight and smacking of the time; And long we gazed, but satiated at length.' I think you are not satiated, and I can certainly write sonnets about your length."

John huffs. Secretly pleased. "I didn't think you kept poetry in that massive brain of yours."

"It's not the only thing of mine that is massive."

"Yes, your ego," John retorts.

"You wound me, John." Sherlock feigns to withdraw, but John's hand locks on his wrist in a surprising -- no, desperate -- grip.

"Don't leave me, Sherlock."

In the dim light of the moon through the window, Sherlock's eyes glint. "Never, my dear Watson. Never."


End file.
